


Though I Try Not To

by DrowningByDegrees



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, feelings are hard okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22916794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees
Summary: “You didn’t come back,” Geralt murmurs as if that somehow covers everything.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 307
Kudos: 2522
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Geralt is Sorry, these bitches gay! good for them!!





	1. Chapter 1

It’s not that Jaskier isn't perfectly aware of Geralt's ability to catch up with him. For all the heartache driven space the bard has sought between them, Jaskier bears no illusions of some newfound ability to outrun or hide from the witcher. 

It’s just that he hadn’t thought Geralt would bother to do said catching up after, well, _that_. But here they are, Geralt sitting across the table in the tavern a month’s worth of grief had herded Jaskier to. He means to tell Geralt to get out but the words won't come. Jaskier's heart is sharp pieces in his hands, but he still aches to reach out, still finds himself entranced by the way the late afternoon light slants through the open door and softens Geralt’s features. 

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._ The passage of weeks doesn't lessen how the last thing Geralt said flays Jaskier open, leaving him too raw to begin to string a sentence together. He resigns himself to the misery of it, knowing that whatever has brought Geralt back, that vitriol will crouch in the dark corners of Jaskier’s mind, waiting for an opportunity to prove itself true. And yet, Jaskier can’t make his feet move to put the distance between them that he should. There’s a song in it probably, pitifully maudlin. 

“Hi. Hello. Um-” Jaskier fumbles for something to close the yawning chasm between them, but all his poetry fails him. Geralt doesn’t say a word, which is nothing new and shouldn’t throw Jaskier off after the better part of two decades, but here they are, Geralt staring silently while Jaskier tries his best to swallow around what feels like a throat full of glue. Eventually, he gives up any attempt at eloquence. “Why are you here?”

“You didn’t come back,” Geralt murmurs as if that somehow covers everything. 

“Did you think I was going to? You made your feelings pretty clear.” Jaskier clings to his mug, grounding himself while he paints on a veneer of someone a little less heartbroken. It’s brittle at best, one crack away from crumbling, but he manages. “I was just taking myself off your hands.”

Geralt’s often inscrutable expression falters, eyes wide like he’s been struck, but then his gaze slides down to where his hands are clasped on the table. What a sorry pair they make, Jaskier thinks. One talks too much and one too little and neither of them ever manages to say what they mean.

For a while, they sit like that, teetering on the edge of whatever this is. The sun moves on, casting shadows across Geralt’s features, and Jaskier frowns at the way his traitorous heart keeps limping along, searching for some reason, any reason to forgive. 

“I…” Jaskier is shocked when the silence between them finally breaks, even more so that it’s Geralt doing the breaking. There’s a grimace like every word is dragged over hot coals, but Geralt continues, “-shouldn’t have said that.”

It’s not precisely an apology, but it’s the first thread of one, and that’s… unexpected. At first, Jaskier can only stare. When he finally does gather the good sense to say something, he has to yank back the urge for that something to be that it’s fine, they're fine, even though the lie will cost him any peace of mind he might have pulled from this whole mess. Swallowing thickly, he considers his words before replying. “Which part?”

Geralt sighs, but it sounds less like annoyance and more like regret. “Any of it. I was angry and-” 

Impulsively, Jaskier fills in the blank, “- and taking it out on an easy target?”

For once, Geralt doesn’t complain about Jaskier’s having butted in. He lets the bard finish and shakes his head. “- and _wrong_.”

Jaskier, who wears enthusiasm like armor, who smiles and shrugs off everything else, can’t help the bitterness that creeps in. “Good to hear we agree on something.” 

Geralt doesn’t bristle at that, to Jaskier’s surprise. He doesn’t say anything in reply either, which is… less to Jaskier’s surprise. If not for the fear and hurt still gnawing away at Jaskier’s composure, they might almost be back to normal.

Locals wander in with the setting sun, and Jaskier clings to the excuse to escape. Not that he wants to exactly, but how else are they meant to move on except to, well, move on? Surely the inhospitable silence between them will eventually lift. 

“Looks like I’ve got a job to do,” Jaskier says as he pushes himself up from the table. 

At the same time, Geralt has finally decided to speak. “What I’m trying to say is-”

Jaskier freezes, lute in his hand. “Is what?”

Geralt’s expression is, at first glance, impassive. Only Jaskier has known him far too long to miss the grief in the way his mouth very slightly turns down at the corners. The world narrows to it, keeps them both suspended in the moment, the tavern around them dissipating to nothing, and for a second Jaskier thinks maybe this is where things finally mend. “Not important,” Geralt says instead, dark lashes fanning out against his pale skin as the witcher closes his eyes. “Don’t let me keep you.”

 _I want you to_. Jaskier thinks, but his shoulders rise and fall in a shrug that’s far more casual than he feels. “Safe, you know, travels and all that.” 

He has no idea if Geralt replies because he’s not sure he wants to hear the answer. Briskly, he sweeps out onto the tavern floor, hiding behind a light step and a bright smile. Much the same as every other day for the last month, Jaskier loses himself to a performance that’s utterly opposed to the truth of him. 

As best he can manage, Jaskier ignores the fact that Geralt is still sitting at the table in the corner because that’s the end of it, isn’t it? Geralt said what he came to, and now he’ll go. Maybe they’ll find each other again when the gaping wound that’s torn them apart has faded into no more than an ugly scar. Maybe they’ll go on as if nothing happened at all. 

Despite his best efforts, Jaskier’s gaze keeps sweeping over to the corner. Geralt hardly seems to move at all, not after the first song or the first hour, not even when the songs Jaskier sings ease their way from lively to maudlin. 

Hope is a fragile thing, but it blooms in spite of Jaskier’s best efforts to tamp it down. The tavern patrons will filter out, he’ll put away his lute, and maybe, just maybe, they’ll have a proper conversation. Despite the anxious knots in Jaskier’s stomach, he finds himself looking forward, not to the conversation, but to the calm he hopes comes after. 

So, when he finishes the last song of the night, Jaskier is quick to pack away his lute. He pads across the dusty wood floor towards the corner, searching the shadows. Forcing his expression into something that isn’t just this side of terrified, he directs his gaze where it should find Geralt's. 

And freezes. The hope that had crept in is just as quickly crushed, the breath he’d been holding escaping in a miserable shudder. Jaskier glances around the rest of the tavern, just in case, but it’s no use. Geralt is gone. 

\---

It’s the wrong time. Geralt knows that, truly. The right time was weeks ago before Jaskier made it off the mountain. The right time was really to have never driven Jaskier off in the first place. The hurt and anger had run their course enough to realize his error eventually, but by then the bard had been long gone. 

Geralt isn’t following Jaskier. He’s _not_ If the contracts he takes draw Geralt ever closer, it’s purely a coincidence. And if the familiar sound of a lute in the village’s only tavern tugs at heartstrings Geralt isn’t ready to own up to having, it's only his imagination. If the glimpse of a familiar face causes his breath to catch ever so slightly, it’s no more than a trick of the light. 

He lingers outside until the music stops, telling himself it’s only a matter of convenience. Geralt is here and Jaskier is here and to flee instead of trying to mend things is foolish. Only when he’s certain Jaskier is taking a break does Geralt venture inside. There’s no turning back, not when Jaskier immediately spots him, so before Geralt’s confidence can waver, he orders an ale and takes a seat. 

It's a mistake, the witcher thinks. It's one thing to know in an abstract, absent way that he wounded Jaskier and something else to see the inescapable evidence of it. Jaskier’s shoulders tense like he might mean to bolt, and for the first time in all the years Geralt has known him, the bard’s expression is openly wary. 

This is a monster of his own making, Geralt knows, not the sort that cunning or swordplay can dispatch. So, when it sinks its teeth in, an unhappy query about his presence leaving him breathless, Geralt dredges up the only words he can think of to calm it. "You didn't come back."

It's inadequate, he's certain, even before Jaskier turns it on him. "Did you think I was going to? I was just taking myself off your hands.”

Geralt hasn’t been ill in a long, long time, but this is illness, perhaps an insidious sort of poison. The recollection of what he said sits like rot in the pit of the witcher’s stomach, and he’s not quite sure how to pick his way around it to solid ground. ‘Sorry’ is dismally insufficient, but words fail him. They always fail him. 

“I…” he begins, without the slightest idea how to finish. Geralt isn’t stupid or blind, however he might come across. It’s only that he doesn’t know how to reach Jaskier now, when he’s all but crumpled in the seat across the table. An admission isn’t helpful either, but he has to cap off the sentence somehow, so he strings together some semblance of a confession. “-shouldn’t have said that.”

There’s more after that, but conversation pales into insignificance when Geralt lets himself really see Jaskier. Jaskier’s usually gesticulating hands are white knuckled where he clings to a mug like he means to use it as a shield. His usual imperviousness to Geralt’s insults can’t save either of them now. It’s with a sickening sort of recognition that Geralt gets to the root of the problem. He crossed a line… and Jaskier had believed him.

Sorry isn’t enough, but Geralt unclasps his fingers from each other to reach out for all the good it’s likely to do. “What I’m trying to say is-”

And the fragile armistice shakes on its precipice, faltering when Jaskier picks the same moment to withdraw. He casts a furtive glace at the growing crowd. “Looks like I’ve got a job to do.”

Geralt expect the bard to run off, but Jaskier must have heard because he freezes as surely as if Geralt had reached out to him after all. “Is what?”

Agonizingly, the apology wilts on his tongue, too little even before it tumbles off his lips. Realizing he may only get one chance, Geralt swallows his grief. Better to bear it a little longer. Better to make sure he gets this right. “Not important,” Geralt says instead, because there’s an unhappy nervousness to the way Jaskier lingers. “Don’t let me keep you.”

The shrug it earns him is a lie, but Geralt leaves it be, even though the dismissal that comes with it sinks into his skin like claws. “Safe, you know, travels and all that.” 

At first, Geralt thinks to go, to maybe try again the next time they cross paths, but the witcher makes no move to stand. Maybe this is the first pass of the needle stitching the damage he’s done closed, to show what he struggles to find the words to express. So, he stays instead, despite the lack of invitation, without so much as a kind word, the way he’s finally realizing Jaskier has been doing for years. 

There is comfort Geralt knows is largely undeserved in the familiarity of Jaskier’s performance. The witcher knows the songs by heart and the cadence Jaskier follows in small town taverns like these. He recognizes the transition away from bright and substanceless that suggests Jaskier will be finished soon. Even though it’s a sharp point in an open wound, the witcher sits through the weepy melody without complaint. Occasionally, Jaskier’s attention that flits from patron to patron fixes on him, just for a moment in passing. The look is a searching one, which is a great deal better than angry. Though Geralt tamps the feeling down, he knows what hope is, the way it stubbornly leaks around the edges.

They’re almost on their way, creeping towards being okay, but this whole debacle is an exercise in almosts. He almost managed a proper apology. He almost smoothed away the sorrow from Jaskier’s features. He almost got a chance to try again. But almost doesn’t count. 

Whatever else, Geralt is a witcher, and when he’s interrupted by an urgent request, he knows he can’t say no. Jaskier is still playing, a haunting sort of song that coils around him and makes it a little hard to breathe. If it were anything less than an emergency, he’d let the monster wait, but waiting is untenable.

Hoping it doesn’t cost him everything, Geralt flees to save a child and slay a monster. This is his place in the world. These are the things he is made for. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I came back.” Geralt’s tone is still suspiciously gentle, and he’s kneeling down to untie Jaskier’s shoes, and none of it makes a lick of sense. Geralt doesn’t take care of him, doesn’t even _like_ him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably one more chapter that I hope to have done in around a week. <3 
> 
> Thank you for the comments! It absolutely makes my day. :)

It doesn’t matter that the table is empty, that Geralt has left with all the lack of warning that had prefaced his arrival. It’s not as if Jaskier cares for the witcher, whatever his traitorous heart might torment him with. It’s not as if Jaskier needs him. He’d finally been on the cusp of figuring out how to have a life without Geralt in it, but then...

 _You didn’t come back._ Geralt is still saying it in his head, and though he knows he’s the one who was wronged, Jaskier can’t quite help the way the echo wraps around his heart and _twists_. He’s been a source of anger or irritation for Geralt more times than he can possibly count, but this was something else entirely. There had been an unmistakable sadness this time, made more profound by Jaskier’s realization that he only recognized it because he’s had years and years to memorize Geralt’s face, to know if something is off. Jaskier had thought it would be satisfying to see, a fitting sort of revenge, but he’s no good at revenge, and even though Geralt is no longer in the room, all he wants to do is wipe it away. There’s a miserable clarity to the way Jaskier knows he’ll drag himself right back in given half a chance, heartache and all. Honestly, he isn’t sure which one of them to hate more for it. 

For a little while, Jaskier waits, with a mug in his hand and his heart in his throat. The barmaid kindly doesn’t mention the way his gaze is trained on the door, willing Geralt to walk back through it. Surely even after the last time they parted ways, Geralt isn’t so cruel as to turn up just to reopen the wounds Jaskier was trying so hard to close. 

The door doesn’t open, and one ale becomes… well, more. He loses count, chasing a sort of numbness that refuses to come. At some point, everything goes rather fuzzy and sort of sideways, but it doesn’t help. Not really. Neither does burying his face in his arms at the table. 

“Jaskier. You can’t sleep here.” Jaskier is certain he’s had too much because the voice that interrupts his moping is so familiar it makes him want to cry. 

“‘M not sleeping,” Jaskier insists, because he definitely isn’t. That would be ridiculous. Turning his head from where it’s pillowed in his arms, he ventures as far as cracking one eye open. It can’t be right, not when the gaze that greets him is an inhuman shade of gold. Clearly, whatever he’s had is a bit too much. With a confused hum, Jaskier closes his eye again, waiting for the mirage to fade. 

“Okay.” See, it can’t possibly be the witcher because Geralt of Rivia has never been agreeable to anything in his entire life as far as Jaskier can tell. “How about not sleeping somewhere more comfortable?”

Not Geralt does have a point. After a moment’s consideration, Jaskier decides the effort it takes to wobble to his feet is less unpleasant than the bench he’s camped out on. Said feet have other ideas though, and trying to extricate himself from the bench results in him lurching forward. 

“I’ve got you.” There’s that too patient to be Geralt tone again, but two hands rest solidly on his shoulders while he gets himself upright, so Jaskier doesn’t argue. He’s tired and his vision is sort of swimming, so mostly he lets himself be steered away from the table to his room at the other end of the inn. 

Jaskier loses the thread of his drunken attempt at conversation almost immediately, but it all swings horribly back into focus when they stop at the door to his room. This close, it’s harder to convince himself that he’s imagining things, but he’s had this dream before, and he’s not so drunk that he forgets that waking up is agonizing when he lets himself believe it, so he gives the doubt that gnaws at him a voice. “You’re not real. You’re never real.”

“I… what?” Not Geralt has the gall to look hurt. At least, Jaskier is pretty sure that’s what the unfamiliar crinkle around the outside of the witcher’s eyes mean. It’s gone before Jaskier can really wrap his head around it (or anything else) and the next thing he’s really aware of is the mattress under him. 

As soon as Jaskier is settled on the bed, dizzy but upright, he’s struck with the cold that comes with loss of contact. Jaskier scrubs a hand over his face, but the disappearance he expects doesn’t happen. Jaskier tries very hard to keep out the cautious thread of optimism, but it sneaks in anyway. “You came back.”

“I came back.” Geralt’s tone is still suspiciously gentle, and he’s kneeling down to untie Jaskier’s shoes, and none of it makes a lick of sense. Geralt doesn’t take care of him, doesn’t even _like_ him.

Jaskier doesn’t really grasp that he’s being wrangled into bed until he’s flopped back against the pillow with what passes for a blanket in a rented room tugged around his shoulders. There’s something important, monumental even, poised on the tip of his tongue, but the words refuse to come together. There’s only emotion, too much and leaving him reeling. Blearily, he reaches out, like he could make Geralt feel it too. 

“Jaskier.” The low growl of it is more familiar, oddly comforting even if Geralt only ever breaks his heart. Jaskier watches the witcher do something strange with his hand in the air, and then Geralt is leaning closer. “Go to sleep.”

Sleep is a good idea, Jaskier decides. Maybe things will be better in the morning. Even behind his closed eyelids, the world feels like it’s spinning, and then, blessedly, there is nothing. 

\---

It’s hardly the first time Geralt has had to herd an inebriated Jaskier to bed. Normally, it treads the line between exasperating and endearing. Normally, Jaskier is a happy sort of drunk though, clinging to Geralt for all he’s worth and laughing into the fabric of the witcher’s shirt. The bard is shamelessly affectionate, talking like the sun rises and sets with Geralt, and heaven help him, it’s one of the million things Geralt is dismayed to find himself missing. 

What he’d come back to the inn to something else entirely, a turn of events Geralt has never seen before, though he knows very well why. Guilt twists in his stomach as he watches Jaskier sleep. This apology attempt is going _swimmingly_. 

He can’t help but think it’s violating… something to touch without purpose, even if he very much wants to sweep the hair out of Jaskier’s eyes. He has no right to be so familiar. Maybe once he would have chanced it, but he’s realized far too late where that inclination comes from. There are breaks that never heal entirely, and if Geralt knows anything, it’s that he breaks everything he touches. 

The room is silent save for the steady in and out of Jaskier’s breathing, a stark reminder that Geralt is an uninvited guest. He thinks to set up camp outside of town, to give Jaskier space or agency or something. Except leaving is a mistake he’s made once already tonight, and he won’t do it again. 

Geralt only leaves long enough to fetch a glass of water to set on the nightstand before settling at the far end of the room. Sitting on the floor with his back against the wall isn’t exactly ideal, but ideal hasn’t ever been much of a priority. Geralt has resigned himself to far worse places for far less worthy causes. At least this time it’s for something that matters. 

\---

The first thing Jaskier notices is that he’s the unfortunate recipient of a pounding headache. He’s pretty sure there’s no one to blame for it but himself, because he remembers quite clearly the devastation that burned through him like a wildfire leaving ashes behind. The bard remembers rather less clearly what came after. There’d been a drink. Well, definitely more than one, but it’s all quite fuzzy. 

Before there can be a second thing, a sound at the other end of the room startles Jaskier. He’s relatively certain he didn’t bring anyone back to his room, so any other presence is an alarming thing to wake up to. Whatever he might have learned at some point about self preservation and not letting on that he’s awake flies right out the window, and Jaskier sits upright, casting about for something he can use as a weapon. 

“I don’t know what you-” Jaskier starts. He spots the intruder though, and the rest of the warning dies on his tongue. _You’re never real_. His mind helpfully reminds him of what he’d said, but absolutely none of the context for it to be more than a disjointed memory. 

The sunlight makes everything a little bit softer, even Geralt, and Jaskier thinks he might appreciate the imagery if not for the way his head throbs. As if there is some other white haired witcher likely to be standing beside his bedroom window, Jaskier finishes, “-Geralt?”

Geralt hums an acknowledgment as he turns to face Jaskier, but doesn’t say a word. That’s familiar and it should really be less exasperating after this many years, but it still leaves Jaskier breathing out a vexed sort of sigh. It occurs to him that if he leaves it to Geralt, they’re going to be standing here silently staring at each other for the foreseeable future, so he presses forward. 

The state of his head quells the urge to put every thought in his head to words, but it leaves all his questions and confusion a tangled mess that it takes far too long to pick apart. The only thing he manages to push into words is a surprised sounding, “You’re still here.” 

Geralt’s lips press into a thin line, the only indication that he’s considering his response. The way the silence stretches out, Jaskier thinks foolishly that there might be an explanation, but when Geralt finally replies, it’s only a quiet, “I’m still here.” 

“Yes, well, thank you for confirming the obvious.” Jaskier pinches the bridge of his nose because his head hurts, and the sunshine is much too bright, and Geralt of Rivia is utterly impossible. It’s only when the witcher doesn’t expound on why he’s here that Jaskier recognizes how invested he is in the answer, even though he’s terrified of it, even though he knows it’s as liable to wound as it is to soothe. There’s no mug to hide behind this time, so Jaskier squeezes his hands into fists until he can feel the sharp pressure of nails against his palms as he presses. “Why?”

Geralt looks at him, eyes widening a fraction, leaving Jaskier to wonder what it means. He watches Geralt’s jaw tense, but the witcher at least answers him with a complete sentence. “We had a conversation to finish.”

It’s technically a complete sentence anyway, but surely they both know it’s not what Jaskier is really asking. Even if it was, it’s also just about the least helpful thing Jaskier thinks he could have said. Irrationally, Jaskier wishes he didn’t know Geralt had come back the night before so he could at least be mad about that. 

“Which we might have done already if you hadn’t run off.” Jaskier clings to the only complaint he _can_ be mad about instead. He’s full of nervous energy, frenetic and driving him out from under the covers. The change of angle draws his attention to a glass of water and a plate of bread and fruit, which is so uncharacteristically considerate, Jaskier has no idea what to do with it except. “And don’t think I’m going to forgive you just because you… you… brought me breakfast.”

The put upon scowl Jaskier expects never comes. If anything, Geralt’s expression softens into something a little less inscrutable. “I had a job.”

“You could have said.” It’s the last two decades all over again, like he’s an afterthought, and between that and the headache, Jaskier’s tone is all sharp edges.

“You were busy.” Geralt answers damnably easily, and of course it makes sense. Jaskier hates that it makes sense almost as much as he hates knowing he’s going to cave.

In an effort to soothe the awful sense of exposure he’s shrouded in, Jaskier pushes himself to his feet. He keeps talking, maybe to argue, maybe just because once he starts it’s hard to stop. “Left a note maybe?”

“I was in a hurry.” 

“Told _someone_. Honestly.” In all Jaskier’s fuming he’s come closer, almost in arm’s reach. By the time he realizes what he’s done, there’s no graceful way to retreat, even though his heart is hammering away in his chest. 

There’s no retort forthcoming, so Jaskier assumes Geralt is done arguing about that at least. He’s quiet, clearly listening, and something about the way Geralt stands, intentionally unimposing, strikes Jaskier as rather penitent. Whatever semblance of temper Jaskier has scraped together scatters, much to his chagrin, and when he speaks next, is softer and coaxing. “Well, I’m here now.”

“I… admittedly never figured out what to say next. I didn’t figure I’d get this far.” The confession is a quiet one, accompanied with what might be a shadow of a smile, though it’s sorrowful and full of regret. 

“I guess that makes us even.” Jaskier replies, hushed despite the lack of audience. He swallows around what feels like a lump in his throat, “I never figured you were going to try.”

“I know it’s not enough to be sorry, but it’s all I’ve got.” Geralt speaks like each word is a mountain to climb over. Jaskier can’t help but realize he must have thought about this a great deal because it’s the most he can remember Geralt articulating about an emotion pretty much… ever. “It’s just, we’ve been at this a long time, and if you’re going to leave, it shouldn’t be like that.”

The rest comes out in an uncharacteristic jumble that would be endearing if not for the cause of it. Jaskier chews at his lip as he thinks, helplessly expressive, even when he’d rather not be. He’s uncomfortably hung over, and Geralt is looking at him like he’s expecting to be booted out, and everything is just really a bit much. 

“You know, when you stab someone,” he blurts out, pausing when he forgets where he was going with it. The sentence hangs in the air, and Geralt cocks his head ever so slightly to the side, but he’s _listening_ and Jaskier hardly knows what to do with it. “Pulling the knife out doesn’t undo what it leaves behind.”

Of course after he says it, Jaskier remembers that the metaphor is actually supposed to be about nails in a fence or something, so he isn’t entirely surprised by the way Geralt’s brow furrows in confusion. “That’s a terrible example, Jaskier. Pulling the knife out is just a faster way to die.”

“Maybe. Not if you stop the bleeding.” It’s probably obstinate to cling to the analogy now that he’s said it, but something he’s said seems to have hit a nerve. Geralt opens his mouth and then closes it again, so Jaskier takes up the empty space before he can second guess himself. “Are you sorry? Really?”

“More than anything in my life.” Geralt’s gaze is steady, but more open than Jaskier can ever remember seeing it. Jaskier isn’t fool enough to think Geralt has really changed, but there’s hope in this, and he can’t help the lopsided smile that creeps across his lips, when Geralt lays a hand very tentatively on his arm. It’s mystifying in how careful it is, easily shaken off, like Geralt thinks it might burn. “I’ve been… unkind. I know. How do I make it up to you?”

“Look, let’s not make _plans_ about it, Geralt. I don’t want promises you won’t be able to keep.” Geralt flinches, so subtly that Jaskier only catches it because of the witcher’s hand on him. “I’ve always known who you are. It isn’t as if I kept coming back because I thought you were ever going to be different.”

When Geralt pulls his hand away, it’s all Jaskier can do not to chase after the contact. He’s sort of relieved when there’s conversation to focus on until he actually hears what Geralt is asking, “Then why?”

He can’t say all of it. It wouldn’t be fair here, when Geralt is so clearly remorseful, he’d probably give anything he thought Jaskier wanted. There’d never be any telling what of it was real and he’s seen the cost of that kind complication already. So, Jaskier holds onto his secrets, maybe for now, maybe forever, and gives the most sanitized explanation he knows how to. “No one is everything you want them to be. Sharing your life with other people is mostly just figuring out whose faults you can put up with. Or, at least whose better qualities make up for it. So, I made a choice. Every time.”

\---

Geralt isn’t sure which of them moved first, only that Jaskier is a welcome presence, warm and solid and present in a way Geralt hadn’t realized he’d missed. He hesitates because they’re miles away from being okay, but it’s a solace maybe both of them need, so he gingerly folds his arms around Jaskier’s back and draws the bard closer. 

It doesn’t mean anything in any romantic sort of sense, even if the gesture makes Geralt want to bury his fingers in the fabric of Jaskier’s rumpled doublet and never let go. Jaskier’s been overwhelmingly tactile as long as they’ve known each other, and he wears his emotions more openly than anyone else Geralt has ever met. Still, Jaskier’s head rests against his shoulder, nose tucked against the crook of his neck, and for the first time in a month, Geralt can breathe. 

Whatever else, Geralt thinks that this is finally the part where they start to mend. It’s not something he’s used to because he’s never quite sure what to do with affection, but Geralt stays put so long as Jaskier wants him there, unwilling to be the one to break away. He owes at least that. The room is quiet save for their breathing until Jaskier mumbles against the side of his neck. “If?”

“If what?” Geralt asks, letting go when Jaskier seems to be moving to disentangle himself. The loss of contact is profound, but when Jaskier pulls away, he looks happier… or at least less miserable than Geralt has seen him in ages, and there’s only relief in that. 

“You said ‘if I leave’.” Geralt isn’t sure what Jaskier’s seized upon exactly, but he’s being poked in the chest with one fingers, and the way Jaskier looks at him makes Geralt feel like he’s given away a terrible secret. “Is that your way of asking me to come with you again?” 

Geralt lets his shoulders rise and fall as casually as he can make them, relieved that that’s all Jaskier pulled out of the conversation. “It’s your choice.”

His heart breaks for them both a little when Jaskier smiles at him in earnest. Geralt is foolish enough to drive Jaskier away when it’s the last thing he really wants, and Jaskier is foolish enough to come back every time. Heaven help them both if either of them ever actually wizens up. 

“Wait for me then.” Jaskier shoos Geralt towards the door, grimacing when it means the witcher is no longer blocking the light from the window. It’s probably going to mean listening to Jaskier complain about the sunshine and the pace they’re moving and everything else until he sleeps the hangover off, but Geralt can’t bring himself to mind. 

Geralt pauses at the threshold. “As long as you need.”

As it turns out “as long as you need” is long enough for Jaskier to nod off again until the innkeeper boots him out of the room, but he comes out into the tavern proper looking much more himself. Utterly incapable of using furniture for their intended purpose it seems, Jaskier sits on the edge of the table, gazing down at Geralt. “So. Where to?”

Saying sorry until Geralt is blue in the face doesn’t amount to much, but maybe he can show it. The way he ought to have before he made such a wreck of things. Geralt scoots out from behind the bench, inclining his head a little for Jaskier to follow. “The coast.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it poetic to measure the passage of years by how deep the heartache runs? It doesn’t feel very poetic, but it had at least felt _manageable_ before Geralt had upended the whole damned applecart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience! Current events threw my schedule into chaos, so there was a bit of a delay.

A choice. Geralt repeatedly sloughs off Jaskier’s casual explanation of why he’s kept coming back as they put miles between them and the inn. The words won’t leave him be, every bit as persistent as Jaskier. Three days later, they still stick to his skin like humid, stagnant air in the height of summer, oppressive to the point of drowning out all else. It’s not a terrible thing to suffocate in, when all is said and done though, because the words drag a delicate, spun glass realization along with them. 

Jaskier made a choice, again and again for _years_. It can only mean, no matter how foolish or misguided, that Jaskier decided this was a choice worth making. The conclusion buzzes under Geralt’s skin, a revelation that crackles down his spine as he listens to Jaskier feel his way through some new melody. The bard’s disjointed humming and and half formed line have been missing long enough for Geralt to sink into the comfortable familiarity them, eager to find his way back to the normalcy he’d denied them both. For a while it works, until the lilting tune fades away and Jaskier’s tone takes on a more conversational quality. “There’s something I don’t get.”

It’s an innocuous thing to say, but it looms, more daunting than any of the monsters he’s fought as of late. He’s had plenty of years to establish that ignoring Jaskier isn’t going to help. He can’t bring himself to ask, to invite whatever is coming, but he ignores the nervous knot in his stomach and hums in a vague acknowledgment that he at least heard. 

“If you’d decided leaving ought to be my choice, what took you so long to just… I don’t know, _talk_ to me about it?” Oh. _That_. If it’s what the bard is on about, Geralt expects Jaskier’s ire, but no trace of it greets him. When Geralt dares to glance Jaskier’s way, the bard’s mouth is pulled up in a lopsided, put upon sort of smile that Geralt wants to secret away somewhere to dredge up every now and again for the rest of his life. 

There are words, probably, to explain, but Geralt doesn’t have them. He hardly knows the shape of his own reasoning, let alone how to convey it to someone else. Geralt mulls it over, not realizing the time he’s taken until Jaskier fills the silence. “Back to the status quo, I see. I really don’t know why I asked.”

Jaskier’s tone is teasing, but as he turns away, Geralt spots the way the bard’s smile drops away, replaced by something more pensive. Geralt doesn’t say a word, but the knot in his stomach tightens a little more. 

In the end, Jaskier gives him the space to avoid answering, changing the subject entirely. The day passes much like the last two, much like all the other days they’ve spent traveling over the years, but Geralt can’t shake the feeling that there’s a price for his silence this time.

\---

Maybe that price is just his own peace of mind. It’s dark, the fire beginning to fade to embers, and they’re both tucked into their bedrolls, but the question still lingers, unwilling or unable to fade away fade away. Not anymore than the ghost of Jaskier pressed into his arms. Not anymore than the inconvenient desire to reach out, to card his fingers through Jaskier’s hair or run a hand down his back, anything really, to convince himself that he hasn’t dreamt up the bard’s presence. He’s never felt so unable to steer his emotions as he does where Jaskier is concerned. 

Jaskier is facing away from him, maybe dozing, maybe just watching the dying fire, and it’s a little less difficult to drag his thoughts out into the open air without an active audience. “I thought, if I let it be, if I let you just be gone…”

Geralt pauses because the truth is crushing, threatening to knock the breath right out of him. He expects Jaskier to press, but the bard just waits. Only the cadence of Jaskier’s breathing even lets on that he’s awake to hear. 

He’d dangling over the edge of something, Geralt knows. The rest comes out in a rush, hardly more than a whisper that might be lost in the space between them. “That I wouldn’t need…”

_You_. His mind helpfully fills in, but the word catches in his throat, because that _means_ something. It has to be obvious. It must have been obvious all the years he’s tried to ignore it. Surely, Jaskier can fill in the blank. 

Except that he doesn’t doesn’t. It’s heartbreaking and relieving in equal measure when Jaskier supplies him with an easy excuse. “A friend?” 

There’s an out again, and Geralt takes it, retreating from the truth with a noncommittal hum. He watches Jaskier, the shift of his shoulder with every breath, the way he stills when he's listening. Offhandedly, the witcher thinks about scooting closer, seeking out the comfort of Jaskier's heartbeat under his hands, but it's a warm night, so there’s really no excuse and Geralt doesn't want to have to parse what it means that he wants it in the first place. 

“Yes, well, whatever you pretend at, even witchers aren’t immune to being lonely, I suspect,” Jaskier murmurs. His tone is friendly enough, but there’s something about it that strikes Geralt as a little bit off, acrid despite the lightness of it. Jaskier doesn’t roll over to look at him, and that probably means something too. 

Maybe this is the price of his failure to answer, a strange crack that widens out between them. Before Geralt can decide whether to bridge it, Jaskier ends the conversation. The bard does turn then, long enough to offer up an oddly watery sort of smile. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

\---

Jaskier had thought coming back would ease the aching thing that dogs him, but it only takes a different shape. He hates them both, he thinks, just a little. Days have passed since Geralt came back to him and it’s… comfortable. The habits they fall into are familiar, well worn by so many years traveling together, with only the absence of Geralt’s sometimes scathing sense of humor letting on that anything at all has changed. 

Excep _t everything_ has changed. Geralt hasn’t laid a finger on him since the inn, but the echo of the witcher’s arms around him haunts Jaskier. It’s not enough, leaving him wanting. It’s too much because now he knows what it feels like. 

The yearning, at least, is just as familiar as all the rest. He’s tamped it down for nearly half his life, refusing to ask anything real for himself because he’s Geralt’s friend. He thinks he might be the only one the witcher really has, so he’s always set aside all the other threads that spun out from that friendship because he couldn’t bring himself to take the risk, and that had been fine. 

Is it poetic to measure the passage of years by how deep the heartache runs? It doesn’t feel very poetic, but it had at least felt _manageable_ before Geralt had upended the whole damned applecart. Being driven away had been objectively awful. But then… just when Jaskier was gluing himself back together, Geralt came _back_. Inconceivably, Geralt swept in with an apology and an invitation and might as well have had Jaskier on strings for all the work it took to coax him back out onto the road again.

It’s so much worse this time wrapped up in the ghost of an embrace he’s craved for years. He’s prattling on, not even really thinking about it, but something he says lures a faint smile out of Geralt and Jaskier wants to catch it and hold on, to make the witcher do it again for the rest of their lives. 

This would be so much easier if it were something as simple as attraction. That, at least, is easily maneuvered in some other less inconvenient direction. If not attraction, Jaskier wishes it were only a crush, burning bright and fleeting, but this many years in, there’s very little chance that it’ll peter out the way any other infatuation does. No, Jaskier is stupidly, _devastatingly_ in love, and actually, he can’t hate either of them at all. 

\---

The path they take to the coast is a meandering one, picking up the occasional contract on their way. Well, Geralt does. Jaskier entertains the locals, and works on a song, and pointedly ignores the way his heart seizes up every time the witcher walks through the door of the inn inevitably looking a wreck but there all the same. He’s never imposed his feelings on Geralt before, and he’s not about to start now.

It’s not easier having a word for what Geralt does to him, not really, but with a name it’s a more organized sort of torment. It’s a less nebulous thing to put away when Jaskier catches Geralt leaning in the doorway of the inn in some village the bard doesn’t even remember the name of, listening to him play. The surly expression Geralt wears like armor has eased up, and his head is cocked a little to the side in a way Jaskier would read as fond from… well, literally _anyone_ else. Geralt had come back for him, true, and Jaskier knows full well that the suggestion witchers don’t feel is a load of bollocks, but he still isn’t sure ‘fond’ is in Geralt’s repertoire. 

And yet, here they are. Geralt stays put, and he’s not smiling, but he’s also not doing the thing where he’s decidedly _not_ smiling (which at this point Jaskier thinks might just be his face). He’s simply there, his gaze sort of lazy and soft, looking frustratingly inscrutable until his brows suddenly furrow in what is unmistakably confusion. 

Annnnnnd Jaskier has been staring too long, he realizes, much to his chagrin. It’s ridiculous really, because he’s managed nearly two decades of not being unraveled, at least not where anyone could see. Being caught out now is just embarrassing. Pretending not to notice the way Geralt’s eyes narrow, Jaskier very briskly turns his attention elsewhere. 

That’s the end of it, Jaskier thinks, losing himself in the performance once more. The crowd sings along, and Jaskier flits from table to table, glad for the distraction. It’s not long before he’s forgotten all about his misstep, and so when he hears his name in a low rumble at his back between songs, the bard nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Y...es?” The word pitches up at the end as Jaskier turns to face Geralt. 

Geralt’s brows dip ever so slightly. “Everything okay?”

“I’m sorry. Was that concern I just heard? I don’t think you’ve asked me that in the entire time I’ve known you.” Jaskier turns it back because it’s the only thing he can think to do that isn’t either a confession he doesn’t want to make or flat out lie. “What possessed you to start now?”

“You were staring,” Geralt replies, as infuriatingly succinct as ever. Jaskier isn’t quite sure if it’s a complaint or a concern. “It was unusual.”

“ _Unusual_.” Jaskier finds himself smiling despite himself, relaxing as he finds his footing. He doesn’t mention how strange it is to hear Geralt give away any semblance of emotional intelligence because it’s probably not progress, but it _might_ be, and Jaskier knows the moment he draws attention to it, the witcher will put more distance between them. Jaskier teases instead, taking advantage of the familiar territory banter provides. “Since when do you stick around long enough and listen to have any idea what’s usual?”

Geralt’s face does an odd, twitchy sort of thing. It’s not quite a flinch, but it’s something, and it drives Jaskier mad that he doesn’t know what it means. There’s no spot for this one in Jaskier’s internal library of Geralt’s vague expressions. 

The thing is Jaskier is _good_ at people, most of the time. He reads the room full of strangers with no trouble at all. Maybe Geralt isn’t “people” in the same run of the mill way everyone else is, but he’s still someone, the someone Jaskier should be most able to understand at this point.

“Not any quieter upstairs. At least there’s ale here.” It takes Jaskier a moment to realize Geralt’s volunteering an explanation. Sort of. He’s at least volunteering a combination of words that take up more space than just about anything else he’s said in the last twenty-four hours. It takes another minute for Jaskier to realize said explanation is summarily ridiculous, given Geralt’s empty hands and the pack he’s still carrying over his shoulder. 

It’s not a lie exactly in that Geralt didn’t actually say he’d gone upstairs, but it’s curious, even by Geralt standards. Jaskier opens his mouth to say as much, but Geralt slips away to the bar before he can. From the table Jaskier is perched on, he allows himself to watch briefly, but the tension in Geralt’s broad and and shoulders and the tangled hair Jaskier very much wants to run his fingers through don’t have any answers either. 

He’s got work to do, so Jaskier tears his eyes away from Geralt after that, a theatrical, put on for the audience smile twisting on his lips as he strums the first chords of the next song. 

\---

It’s not the first time that Geralt has thought that sharing a bed was his worst decision. It’s not even the first time tonight specifically. It’s just the most insistent. 

Geralt isn’t sure what wakes him, but the room is still nearly pitch black, swaddled in a quiet that only ever exists when Jaskier is sleeping. Only the barest hint of moonlight comes in through the curtains, but even so, Geralt has no trouble making out the contours of Jaskier’s face, peaceful and slack in slumber. They’re close enough to touch, close enough for it to be unintentional. As tactile as Jaskier is, Geralt doubts his friend would even care. That’s half the problem really, because Jaskier makes it such an easy threshold to step over. Geralt has had days to ruminate over the uncontrolled shift of his emotions, enough to know that if he reaches out now, he might not be able to let go. It might ruin him entirely. 

It’s not new, not really. This… affection, though he’s loathe to call it that, crept in and made a home so long ago he scarcely remembers, but it’s never been so loud before. They’ve drifted in out of out each other’s paths and there’s never been any real urgency, except now he knows what really, truly losing Jaskier feels like. If Geralt never feels it again, it’ll still be too soon. He’s not fool enough to think anything is requited in quite the same way, because Jaskier falls in and out of love like breathing, and surely he would have said _something_ the way he never shuts up about anything else. 

Geralt’s train of thought is interrupted as Jaskier rolls over, pressing close to the witcher in sleep. Pulling away is out of the question and there’s no good place to put his arms, so it isn’t long before Geralt caves, carefully folding them around Jaskier’s back. Jaskier doesn’t wake, precisely, but he makes a soft sound and shifts closer, leaving his head tucked under Geralt’s chin. 

Geralt freezes, waiting for Jaskier to wake up, to look at him with muzzy, sleep clouded eyes and demand some kind of explanation. It never happens. There’s only his own heartbeat too loud in his ears, and Jaskier’s breath coming in warm, even puffs against his throat. Before Geralt really stops to consider, his hand drifts to cradle the back of Jaskier’s head, his thumb idly smoothing over the bard’s hair. 

It eases some tense and nameless thing just to stay, to pretend for a little while that this is something he can have. Knowing the cost doesn’t stop Geralt from memorizing the way they fit together, from Jaskier’s face pressed against his throat to the casually intimate tangle of their legs. Self control has completely, utterly failed the witcher, even knowing this will probably be gone in the morning. Fine, he thinks, resisting sleep for just a little longer. He’ll let himself be ruined. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a thought that catches and sticks to him like bait on a hook despite Geralt’s every effort not to give himself any room to hope. Afternoon brings them back to sit side by side in the sand, letting the sun dry them off. Jaskier has sand stuck to his skin, and his hair is a windswept disaster, but he’s smiling like Geralt hung the moon and the witcher doesn’t know quite what to do with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that the reason this last chapter was taking so long was that I accidentally doubled the length of the fic, so compromise time! I'm posting the first half now, and I'll put the last bit up when I've had a chance to look at it with a fresh set of eyes. <3 
> 
> Thank you for your patience and your comments and for sticking with me through this!

It’s hardly the first time Jaskier has woken up tangled up in bed linens and someone else’s limbs. It’s usually accompanied by a more conspicuously delightful memory of the night before though… and considerably fewer clothes. The only thing Jaskier remembers doing is turning down the lovely barmaid - _twice_ \- as he packed up his lute with the excuse that he had an early morning. That was hardly the sort of evening likely to end in…

Well, in what Jaskier eventually surmises is someone’s arm draped lazily across his flank, drawing him into a sleepy embrace. It’s nice, really, and Jaskier is just hazy enough with sleep to appreciate the unexpected intimacy without thinking too hard how he came by it. Groggily, Jaskier cracks one eye open to find himself staring at the pale, delicate flesh of someone’s throat where it disappears into the collar of a black shirt. Idly, it occurs to him that his fingers are twisted in the fabric of said shirt. It’s not soft, exactly, but it’s familiar in a way that leaves Jaskier breathing easier, content to go back to sleep. 

Jaskier nearly does, in fact. He’s drifting when he realizes why that shirt is so familiar, whose collarbone he’s comfortably nuzzled against. All at once, Jaskier’s heart nearly stops, and he holds his breath as if letting it out might be the thing that wakes Geralt. He’s very, _very_ certain he’d remember if the witcher had volunteered anything like this, so it seems quite likely that waking Geralt will end with being pushed away. Or worse. Jaskier’s heart can take the painful limbo of only mostly being sure Geralt doesn’t share his feelings. It can’t take all out rejection. Not right now. Not when his heart is already a bruise that beats behind his breastbone, aching in a dull rhythm. 

As quietly and carefully as anything Jaskier has ever done in his entire life, Jaskier tries to ease himself out of Geralt’s embrace. It’s easier said than done though, because Geralt’s fingers curl loosely between Jaskier’s shoulder blades. Whatever reflex or instinct has driven them there in the first place, the pressure of Jaskier pulling back makes them catch in the back of his chemise, ensnaring him. 

There are worse ways to die. Besides, Jaskier thinks, he’d been trying to save them both the embarrassment of this, but at this point it’s very definitely Geralt’s fault anyway. That’s the only reason he gives up, of course, sighing into the collar of Geralt’s shirt, twitching when the fabric tickles his bottom lip. It’s not that there’s solace in this. It’s not that this feels comfortable and safe and like home even though Jaskier’s poor, battered heart is hammering away in his chest. 

Resigned to his current predicament, Jaskier makes the most of it. He can’t escape entirely, but his jostling about has put just enough space between them that Jaskier can get a proper look at Geralt’s face. It’s horribly unfair, Jaskier thinks, that someone can be so full of shadows and sharp edges, and still be so pretty. In slumber, the irritated crinkle that so often lives between the witcher’s eyebrows is smoothed out, and the perpetual frown he wears has eased into something calmer. It’s not something Jaskier generally sees, because Geralt is always the first one awake. If he stares shamelessly, mentally sketching out the details, no one is any the wiser.

Geralt doesn’t stir as the seconds pass, and with each one, Jaskier gets a little braver. Maybe just a little stupider. Definitely stupider given the way he impulsively gives in to the urge to unclench his fingers from Geralt’s shirt and bring them elsewhere. It’s just that Geralt’s hair is still loose from a bath the night before and a stray lock of it looks to be trying to make an escape. If he doesn’t push it back, the way it sways against the side of Geralt’s nose is likely to wake the witcher. Obviously, this isn’t tenderness. It’s only an act of self preservation. 

So, Jaskier swallows and very, very carefully sweeps the errant lock of hair out of Geralt’s face, tucking it behind his ear instead. Geralt doesn’t stir, not even when Jaskier lingers, a quiet if only that passes from his fingertips to the witcher’s pale skin. The sentiment is quiet, delicate, hardly a touch at all, but Jaskier idly traces Geralt’s features, from his temple to the curve of his jaw. He could wake up to this face every day, soft and uncharacteristically serene, and never get tired of it, Jaskier thinks. It’s not in the cards, not like this at any rate, but the fantasy is a pleasant one to harbor for a little while. 

It’s largely innocent all things considered, but Jaskier still nearly leaps out of his skin when Geralt stirs. The movement is subtle, maybe even just Geralt shifting in his sleep, but suddenly, sticking around and blaming it on the witcher doesn’t feel like such a foolproof plan. Much as he’d like to stay, Jaskier squirms out from under Geralt’s arm, hoping to be quick enough that if the witcher notices Jaskier’s escape, he won’t notice what came before.

He’s on his feet in a flash, heart racing as he straightens his clothes and gathers up some semblance of composure. Jaskier busies himself immediately, packing up their belongings, and if Geralt is blearily watching him out of the eye that isn’t half shoved into the pillow, the bard doesn’t notice. 

\---

Geralt doesn’t say a word about it. Not when they get on the road. Not when they take one last break with the coastline in easy reach. Even if he felt the need to have a conversation, he hasn’t the foggiest idea of where to start. 

It’s not _weird_ , Jaskier touching him. The way Geralt had found himself tempted to lean in when Jaskier’s fingers traced his jawline is a great deal more uncomfortable than anything the bard had been doing. Even now, the echo of it lingers and pulls him in. His heart and body are traitors to any semblance of good sense, yearning after the last thing he ought to. 

What _is_ weird is the way Jaskier had jumped up afterwards, guilt clouding his features, drawing his usually smiling mouth downward, knitting his brow. It’s confirmation of what Geralt already knows to be true, that Jaskier’s fondness has limits. It all adds up even, except for the part that doesn’t. The feather light touch of Jaskier’s hand has seared its way onto Geralt’s skin, and it’s not utilitarian. It’s tender in a way he shouldn’t trust, but can’t explain in any other way. 

There’s a warmth that wells up entirely uninvited, a brief and hopeful thing that does its damnedest to put an anchor down. Things have been different since they reunited, though Geralt has trouble putting his finger on what it is that’s different exactly. Maybe nothing at all, and it’s just him, painfully grateful for the wreckage to be cleared. Still, it’s nice to entertain the notion that Jaskier is just as dogged by the feeling as he is. 

Only, he’s seen the way Jaskier behaves around the people he falls into bed with. It’s a wicked smirk across Jaskier’s lips as he winks at pretty people and sings bawdy tunes laden with innuendo. It’s carefully curated most of the time, more image than honesty. What he bestows on the witcher is unguarded, free of all the pretty trappings. It’s the truth of him, an endearing sort of mess. Geralt has only to look over at where Jaskier is sitting on his bedroll to recognize that. 

Currently, Jaskier is holding the quill he’s writing with between his teeth to free up his hands, and the sheepish grin he offers up around the writing instrument when he sees Geralt looking is positively ridiculous. There’s nothing beautiful about it, but earthquake that shakes his foundations doesn’t care about beautiful. The point, of course, is that this isn’t the side of Jaskier that he shows to anyone he means to cozy up to. Geralt follows that line of reasoning to its logical conclusion. This isn’t a category he falls into.

The witcher spares another glance at Jaskier, who has managed to smear black ink across his cheek. It’s not attractive in the slightest. It’s mostly just dumb, evidence of Jaskier’s occasional clumsiness. Geralt curses under his breath because he’s never loved anything so much in his life. He’ll bite his tongue on it if he’s got to. Better a love that’s stomped down and shoved into a corner somewhere than no love at all.

“What?” Jaskier’s brows furrow, and Geralt realizes he’s been caught. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“You’re a mess.” Technically, it’s not a lie, but Jaskier is perceptive, so Geralt covers himself by digging through his bag for a spare rag and throwing it at the bard’s face. He’ll slip eventually, and the fragile thing they’ve tethered together might all come skidding to a halt, but not just yet. 

\---

It’s raining when they reach the coast, but even the downpour doesn’t entirely dispel the smell of it. If he listens very closely, Jaskier imagines he can hear the waves between the raindrops, but it hardly matters either way. This is real. It’s a revelation despite the mundanity of it. This is real and they are here together, and finally, _finally_ , something in him settles. 

“How long do you plan to stay?” Jaskier ventures once they’ve secured a room. It’s not large, but it’s got everything they really need, and already he’s gravitating towards the window that looks out at the beach. . 

“A while.” Geralt replies, vague as ever as he drops his gear in a corner of the room. Jaskier nearly opens his mouth to complain about it, but then the witcher is looking at him and everything goes a little sideways. Geralt looks half drowned, his clothes soaked through and his hair hanging in damp tendrils, clinging to his face. “Until we’re ready to leave.”

 _We._ Jaskier’s head swims, momentarily caught up in the potential. He’s also caught up in the urge to brush the hair out of Geralt’s eyes, halfway there before he catches himself. 

“Right. Yeah. Right. Well, we should at least stay long enough to get to enjoy the place properly. You know, with a little less rain,” Jaskier rambles, searching for a distraction. There’s nothing to this adoration, though it climbs to a fever pitch. Geralt is the same as he’s always been, and Jaskier too. It’s all the same, so he turns away, staring out the window in hopes that he’ll stop being so tempted to stare at Geralt. 

The sea beckons at least, draws Jaskier’s attention even from the distance. There’s a violence to it, whitecap waves crashing over each other in pursuit of the shore. But it’s not only violence. Jaskier allows himself to be soothed by the water rolling in. The force is variable, but the motion is constant. It’s familiar and welcome in a way. 

It reminds him of someone, the steadiness underneath all the bluster. Melitele’s mercy on him, he’s doomed. There’s probably a metaphor for something, Jaskier thinks, that in the face of gray skies and an angry ocean, he’s never felt so close to home. 

“All that complaining about your clothes being soaked through and you’re just going to stand there in them?” Geralt is already at the door, dry and marginally more put together, and really Jaskier thought it would help, but it doesn’t at all. There’s no hint of a smile, but Jaskier knows Geralt’s inflections by heart, and this one is dangerously close to a fond sort of exasperation. 

“Right. I’ll um-” Jaskier starts, but Geralt doesn’t wait. He cocks his head slightly in a silent, vague invitation, and then the door closes, leaving Jaskier alone. “-see you downstairs.”

\--- 

The next day gives them sunshine and Jaskier practically drags Geralt out into it. There’s a market and there are people, and with them the din of civilization. They both know it’s not why they’re here. The witcher grumbles when Jasker shoos him towards the beach anyway, as if Jaskier could ever really make him do anything. 

Sparse, scratchy beach foliage separates the village from the coast itself, too scattered for a path to have been worn through it. The sky is so, so blue. Like Jaskier’s eyes, Geralt knows, but he shakes the thought away. It’s bright and cloudless, full of promise as it meets an ocean that goes on forever. Better to think about the sunlight the warm cradle of it against his skin, even through the fabric of his shirt, like affection, like a lover. Geralt swallows and wonders how he’ll survive this. Better then, to think of nothing at all. 

“Is it everything you dreamed of?” They’ve only just reached the point where the marram grass gives way to sand. As if he conjured up the beach himself, Jaskier throws his arms out as he turns to face Geralt, walking backwards toward the ocean. Waves skim the sand behind him, crawling in, only to sweep back out to sea. They do nothing to temper the bard’s theatrics. 

“Jaskier. I’ve _been_ to the coast. I’ve seen the ocean,” Geralt mildly points out. He tries not to smile, but might as well have been trying to catch his own breath in his hands and one corner of his mouth creeps briefly upwards. 

“Not with me, you haven’t,” Jaskier retorts, as if somehow his company changes everything. 

And maybe it does, because the world is golden in the midday sun, and Jaskier always looks soft, but the light warms up every inch of him. Jaskier catches Geralt’s eye and smiles, and for the first time in days that it doesn’t feel like the edge of some other expression altogether. There’s a simplicity to the moment, to the two of them shucking everything else to just _be_. How will he ever let it go?

Geralt hangs onto that as they wile away the day. He lets Jaskier bully him out of his clothes because really, _Geralt. What’s the point of being at the beach if you’re not even going to get in the water?_ So, Geralt leaves his shirt and trousers in a pile beside Jaskier’s.

There’s warm sunlight staking out a claim across his shoulders, grains of sand giving under his feet with each step. Geralt loses the details in single minded intent though, unceremoniously scooping the bard up only to dump him in the midst of a particularly enthusiastic wave because _really, Jaskier. What’s the point if you’re not going to get in the water?_ If the splash of water catches him too, well that’s a price Geralt doesn’t mind paying. 

It’s a poor decision really, when all is said and done. Jaskier splutters, and Geralt can’t quite pick out when it gives way to laughter. He could live in this moment with warm salt water rising to his shins and Jaskier’s mirth crowding out everything else, and when Jaskier holds out a hand, nothing stops him from taking it. Geralt means to haul Jaskier to his feet, but it turns out the hand he holds out asking for help is really only leverage to pull Geralt in with him. 

Geralt’s surprised, just barely. It’s not enough to fall on his face, but enough that he stumbles his way into the water with Jaskier. His knees hit the sand and his fingers spread out like starfish, and it’s only when the world goes quiet that he recognizes they’re settled on Jaskier’s thighs. 

And that, well it’s one thing, but they’re nearly nose to nose, close enough that Geralt can pick out grey flecks in the blue of Jaskier’s eyes. In all honesty, it’s no more intimate than any of the other reasons they’ve ended up in close proximity, but Geralt’s throat feels dry, and he’s helplessly tethered by Jaskier’s wide, startled gaze. Just as helplessly, Geralt recognizes how scant the distance is between his mouth and Jaskier’s.

A bright pink flush blossoms across Jaskier’s cheeks and his breathing is a little more ragged than it ought to be, but he hasn’t squirmed out of reach, and Geralt allows himself a split second to entertain the notion that they’re on the same page. Maybe they are, but maybe doesn’t feel like enough. The normalcy of being together is only just taking shape again, and Geralt refuses to risk it over something selfish. Is this the price for what he did? For the want he’s carefully ignored for ages to tear through him like a house burning down. Geralt aches with it so much more than he ever used to, but he doesn’t want the ashes. 

So, Geralt pulls back before he can second guess himself. Living with this is penance of a sort, and if he has to pay it every day for the rest of their lives, he’ll do it. It’s only later, after Jaskier has splashed sea water in his face and taken off running down the shoreline that it occurs to Geralt that the look the bard had given him might have been disappointment.

It’s a thought that catches and sticks to him like bait on a hook despite Geralt’s every effort not to give himself any room to hope. Afternoon brings them back to sit side by side in the sand, letting the sun dry them off. Jaskier has sand stuck to his skin, and his hair is a windswept disaster, but he’s smiling like Geralt hung the moon and the witcher doesn’t know quite what to do with it. 

“That doesn’t look like a having fun face. That looks like a serious face. I realize the difference is very subtle with you,” Habit has left him ruminating over everything for far too long judging by Jaskier’s teasing. “There _is_ a difference though. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

The late afternoon sun leaves the whole beach looking like it’s been drenched in honey, and Jaskier right along with it. He’s quiet for once, watching the waves, but even now, with nothing to drive it, there’s some semblance of a smile on Jaskier’s lips. There’s no facade, true, but it could be that’s the point. 

And that’s when it hits him. Jaskier had tried to coax Geralt into this back on the mountain, but the inn Geralt had caught up to Jaskier in was hardly on the way. So, maybe it wasn’t so much the idea of going as it was the idea of them going together that had mattered. It’s pointless to hate himself for the mistake, but it digs in anyway, invisible pinpricks in his skin. 

_Sharing your life with other people is mostly just figuring out whose faults you can put up with. So I made a choice._

He’s been such an idiot, and again hope puts down roots until it’s impossible to ignore. Jaskier is looking at him, concern wrinkling his brow, and it’s only then Geralt realizes he hasn’t said anything. 

“Is it what you hoped?” 

“What? The coast?” Jaskier relaxes visibly and bumps his shoulder companionably against Geralt’s. “I’ve seen the ocean before too, you know.”

“Not with me,” Geralt replies, because it’s safe. Because it substitutes for the thing he cannot say. Because maybe it’s enough to reach Jaskier across the inches of sand and all the unfathomable miles between them.

Jaskier’s lips purse and his eyes narrow suspiciously for so long Geralt is half expecting to be accused of being a doppler or something. In the end, it eases away and the look that finally settles on his features is unmistakably fond. “No. I don’t suppose I have.” 

There’s a lull in the conversation, as there often is when Jaskier doesn’t opt to fill the silence. It’s comfortable, good even. Geralt commits it all to memory, from the halo of light around Jaskier’s profile to his delicate fingers curled loosely in the sand. There are few happy endings for Witchers and even this can only ever be finite, but maybe, just maybe, there can be something good before all that. 

For once, Geralt gives into the impulse to reach out. It’s a careful, delicate thing, sliding his palm over the back of Jaskier’s hand, slotting their fingers together in the sand. Where Jaskier’s fingertips are calloused from playing his lute, the back of his hand is so soft as to seem fragile. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier doesn’t withdraw, but he stares at Geralt’s hand holding his. “What… are you doing?”

There are words for this, hanging heavy in the space between them, but no matter how true they are, Geralt hesitates to voice them. They’re both too much and not enough for the moment, and whatever else, Geralt has to get this right. He drags his thumb soothingly back and forth along the side of Jaskier’s hand. “I’m making a choice.”

“Oh.” 

Jaskier says it so casually, like Geralt didn’t just lay his heart out in the only way he knows how to, and Geralt’s stomach turns at the horrible realization that he’s gotten this wrong. He means to yank his hand away, only, then Jaskier’s eyebrows rise as the meaning catches up with him. “ _Oh._ ”

Geralt tries to… well, he doesn’t know what he was going for really, but it was supposed to be collected or composed or _something_.. What he ends up with though, is Jaskier, who has currently traded his spot in the sand for Geralt’s lap. They’re chest to chest and somewhere along the way Jaskier relinquishes his hand in favor of cradling Geralt’s cheek in it. There’s that look again, like the world starts and ends in this spot. 

This time he doesn’t resist the inclination to lean into the touch. He closes his eyes just for a second, allowing himself a brief moment of weakness as he mumbers, “What are _you_ doing?” 

“That was a terrible angle to try to kiss you from,” Jaskier grouses as if it should be entirely obvious. Abruptly, Geralt feels Jaskier’s heartbeat pick up, and he rubs at the back of his neck. “Unless that wasn’t the plan and then this is probably rather awkward.”

Geralt huffs out what might be a laugh, maybe, but he curls an arm around Jaskier’s waist and quiets the sound against the bard’s lips, reveling in the gasp he gets in return. It’s softer than either of them really, not chaste, not exactly, but unhurried in a way Geralt never allows himself to be. Jaskier’s lips part in invitation, and Geralt follows the way he was probably always going to in the end. It’s a surrender and a promise as Geralt’s arms wind around Jaskier’s back. Jaskier’s fingers curl in Geralt’s hair as if in danger of coming unmoored, but it must be enough, because he melts against Geralt, sighing against the witcher’s mouth. 

Geralt isn’t prone to romanticising things, but the whole world drops away for a little while. There’s just Jaskier, clinging like Geralt is something worth clinging to, crowding out the ocean and the sea birds and whatever distant proof of life might reach their ears from the nearby town. Even the sand beneath them is a muted sensation, unimportant so long as Jaskier’s sun warmed back is under his hands. 

“I tried, you know,” Jaskier murmurs against the corner of Geralt’s mouth. It’s the briefest of detours as Jaskier drifts from Geralt’s lips to nuzzle against the side of his neck. He was never made for tenderness, but Jaskier offers it in spades and Geralt lets himself sink into it, just a little. 

“Tried what?” Geralt asks, softly so as not to shatter whatever it is that has possessed them. Any moment now, he’ll find he’s only dreaming. 

But dreaming currently feels like Jaskier’s warm breath washing across Geralt’s throat. The way Jaskier’s lips move against the crook of his neck is unlikely to be intentional, but the sensation shivers down Geralt’s spine all the same. “To let… to _make_ that be enough. Just being your friend.”

Geralt keeps thinking he’s out of things to be surprised by, but the mournful tone Jaskier explains himself in sucks the air right out of his lungs. They’re both idiots, as it turns out. 

“How long?” Geralt smooths his hands along Jaskier’s spine, basking in the way the bard arches into him like a happy cat. If there’s never anything more carnal than the gentle way they tangle together in the sunlight, Geralt will find the beauty in it anyway. 

In lieu of an answer, Jaskier groans against Geralt’s shoulder. Long enough to be embarrassing, then. It unexpectedly loosens whatever uncertainty Geralt’s been hanging onto still, a weed torn out, a thorn expunged. Geralt kisses Jaskier’s temple as best he can reach. “Well, we’re here now.” 

Jaskier doesn’t lift his head, but Geralt can feel the muscles in his cheeks tighten in the shape of a smile. “We’re here now.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in the dark, he can feel Geralt tilt his head, the witcher baring his throat in an offering. Jaskier is positive Geralt doesn’t even notice himself doing it, and the realization is intoxicating. The casual vulnerability of would always be precious, but even more so coming from someone so guarded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! I hope you've had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. <3

The thing is, despite the beach, it’s no different than any other night. Jaskier performs, just for the love of it, and maybe a little bit so that they don’t have to be in a hurry to leave. Geralt sits in a far corner, expression largely hidden by his mug and the shadows that crowd in around the table he’s at. 

Underneath the veneer of it though, _everything_ is different. Jaskier finds himself glancing Geralt’s way probably too much. It would have been furtive before, but now he wears affection openly, warm and doting across the tavern. He catches the faint suggestion of a smile on Geralt’s lips, and maybe it’s not much, but Jaskier’s heart takes a victory lap for being able to pull it from the witcher. All at once, love has ceased to be a millstone around Jaskier’s neck, and finally he can breathe. 

They go through the motions of their routines, testing the waters. Geralt’s palm lingers a little too long when he claps Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier scritches fondly at the nape of Geralt’s neck in passing, giddily taking note of the subtle shiver it wrings out. 

Like two moons orbiting around each other, they go through all the motions until the sea water is washed from their skin and the inn is empty and the two of them all but collide at the foot of the bed. They kiss. They break away, neither quite daring to capsize the boat. Jaskier _wants_ like nothing else, but as much as he craves finding out what being tangled up with Geralt feels like, there’s so much more to this. 

Because sure, Jaskier has fallen into bed plenty of times with plenty of people, but he’s rarely had this, the quiet promise of tomorrow, and the next day, and the one after that. So when Jaskier snuffs out the candle and crawls under the covers, the first thing he does is lay claim to Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt draws him closer, and Jaskier takes it for what it is. 

Geralt’s heart is a slow, steady rhythm against Jaskier’s cheek. He could sleep like this, Jaskier knows. If he just closes his eyes, he’ll drift. Instead, Jaskier settles, curled in until there's no space between them with one hand resting against Geralt’s breastbone in a loose fist. 

“Pretty much forever,” he whispers into the dark. 

Geralt’s fingers pause in the lazy path they've been traveling between Jaskier’s shoulderblades. “What?”

“You asked how long.” Jaskier does close his eyes then.

“You never said,” Geralt murmurs, the words muffled slightly against Jaskier’s hair. It’s not an accusation, not really. All the same, Jaskier feels like he needs to explain. 

“I have _some_ semblance of self-preservation,” Jaskier teases. He knows Geralt will let him leave it at that, and for a moment he does, but it fizzes and bubbles, and he feels like he might burst if he doesn’t explain himself. “I didn't think you could possibly want this and I couldn’t subject either of us to you giving me the boot. I _told_ you, I kept making a choice to stick with you. I was always going to, no matter what that looked like or what it meant.”

There’s a low rumble in Geralt’s chest that Jaskier recognizes as something adjacent to laughter. “Are you suggesting you were doing me a favor?”

“Oh yes. Right. I know. You don’t need _anyone_.” Jaskier shifts enough to press a kiss to Geralt’s collarbone. Even in the dark, he can feel Geralt tilt his head, the witcher baring his throat in an offering. Jaskier is positive Geralt doesn’t even notice himself doing it, and the realization is intoxicating. The casual vulnerability of would always be precious, but even more so coming from someone so guarded. Smiling to himself, Jaskier kisses the base of Geralt’s throat, reveling in the uneven breath it earns him. Experimentally, he allows his lips to brush across Geralt’s skin as he mumbles, “ _Except_ for when you do.” 

He’s met with a shiver and silence, so Jaskier punctuates his words with a line of slow, open mouthed kisses up the hollow of Geralt’s throat. He isn’t quite sure when innocent affection veered so far off course, but the hitch in Geralt’s breath, the clutch of the witcher's fingers against the nape of his neck, are too lovely to ignore. Every quiet admission that Geralt is coming unraveled leaves Jaskier feeling a bit drunk with it. Geralt shudders as Jaskier’s teeth drag across his pulse and it’s _delightful_ , all the more so when it’s followed by a low, breathless confession. “I need _you_.”

“Any which way you want me,” Jaskier promises, and it must be all the invitation Geralt was waiting for because Jaskier promptly finds himself rolled onto his back on the bed. Geralt cages the bard’s thighs between his knees and Jaskier can’t really see, but he can feel the bed dip where Geralt’s hands rest on either side of his shoulders. He’s relatively certain Geralt can see the broad grin that pulls at his lips. “This way is good.”

He’s utterly smitten, with this, with them, all of it a delightful extension of what was already there. You’re ridiculous _and_. You’re my best friend _and_. I’d follow you anywhere _and_. Finally, wanting doesn’t feel like it has to be a contradiction. 

Jaskier finds his way blindly, splayed fingers sweeping across places he’s ached to touch for what feels like _eons_. He maps out Geralt’s broad shoulders, the way his spine dips just so, like a cat being petted, as Jaskier follows the path of it down to the waist of his braies. There are scars under the pads of his fingers, and Jaskier aims to memorize them too. 

He means to be sweet, romantic even. It’s just that right about the time he frees a hand up to push into Geralt’s hair, Geralt catches his lips in a devouring sort of kiss. Heat crackles down Jaskier’s spine like magic, and the fingers he’d meant to card through Geralt’s hair curl up in it instead, grasping for purchase. He can’t help but arch upwards, seeking warmth, friction, _anything_ , and he can’t even properly appreciate the stuttered sound tugging at Geralt’s hair earns him. On the other hand, he very _much_ appreciates when Geralt shifts his weight to one hand, sliding into the space Jaskier's inadvertently created between his back and the bedding, dragging his straining body that much closer. 

It all goes just a bit sideways after that, and Jaskier loses track. There are too many clothes and then somewhere along the way there aren’t any at all, much to his delight. There’s a fire tearing a path down his chest and belly in the shape of Geralt’s mouth. Without enough light to see, Jaskier only has the usual conclusion for a moment like this to anticipate Geralt’s trajectory, but the witcher drags his teeth across the hollow of Jaskier’s hip instead. It’s never occurred to Jaskier that that might be particularly sensitive, but his whole body jerks and he bits his lip on a strangled sound. 

“Who knew there was a way to make you stop talking?” Geralt teases. Jaskier feels it, warm breath across damp skin, and his toes curl in anticipation. 

“That was almost a dozen words in a row. Did you hurt yourself?” Jaskier’s laughter chokes off in a low moan when he feels the flat of Geralt’s tongue drag rather abruptly up the underside of his cock. 

“You are entirely too coherent,” Geralt complains, and this time Jaskier feels the vibration of it. To think he’d been missing out on this for _years_. Of course, he can’t very well stop now, so Jaskier pushes the way he always does. 

“And whose fault is thaaa-” Jaskier loses his voice in the sudden heat and pressure of Geralt’s mouth around him. Time draws out like taffy and all he can do is clutch at the threadbare bedding and hang on for dear life. The fabric clenched in Jaskier’s fists isn’t nearly enough to ground him. Not while Geralt is swallowing him down until Jaskier can feel the man’s nose against the patch of dark curls at the base of his cock at least. 

It’s too dark to see, which only brings his other senses into sharp relief, the whole of it leaving him breathless. Jaskier is keenly aware of the spider silk drag of Geralt’s hair against his skin as the witcher’s head bobs. He swears he can feel thumbprints where Geralt’s hands curl around the knobs of his hips to keep him pinned. Somehow the details, the suggestions of what’s going on are every bit as erotic as whatever filthy thing Geralt is doing with his tongue against the head of Jaskier’s cock that’s making his head spin. 

He’s dragged along in the current, high tide sweeping up onto the sand. The blankets Jaskier has been tugging at make for a useless anchor, leaving him writhing in Geralt’s grip. Isn't it something though, the way Geralt holds Jaskier steady like he's not even _trying_. The breath Jaskier sucks in comes out in a shudder, winding tighter and tighter around. 

“If you mean for this to be the opening act,” he gasps, reluctantly unclenching the fingers of one hand from the blankets to reach blindly for Geralt. “You’re _really_ going to have to stop.” 

Geralt hums what is likely an acknowledgment, only he’s very definitely teasing, given the way it vibrates around Jaskier’s length before he pulls off with a wet pop. Jaskier has two seconds to be relieved and every intention of dragging Geralt close enough to return the favor, but the bed shifts and there’s unwelcome cool air against his thighs and his hands come up empty. “Geralt? Don’t _leave_.”

“Not leaving.” 

There's a quiet, shuffling sort of sound. He can’t really tell what Geralt is messing with on the other side of the room, but next time he is very definitely going to insist on keeping a candle lit. At the very least, missing the chance to see how Geralt looks like this is downright criminal. Next time. Jaskier’s giddy with the idea that there’s going to even be a next time (a lot of next times, he hopes).

Next time isn’t right now though, and right now Geralt is crawling back into bed, finally in easy reach. With his head ever so slightly less fuzzy, Jaskier wants very little more than to find out how Geralt sounds when he’s coming apart. He pounces and pins Geralt to the bed, harboring no illusions that it was anything other than the witcher letting him. That does things to him too though, and Jaskier grins, clumsily bumping against Geralt’s jaw on the way to his mouth in the dark. “What was important enough to leave over?” 

“I just thought-” And _there_ it is. Jaskier’s aim might have been off once, but the jut of Geralt’s hips into the meat of his thighs is guidance enough. Jaskier cants his hips forward, revels at what meets him there. If there'd been any questions regarding Geralt's feelings about this, his body answers them quite clearly. Geralt’s explanation chokes off abruptly, and at first it’s nothing, but then Jaskier rolls his hips again and Geralt moans, a low, wrecked sound that curls around the shell of Jaskier’s ear. This most definitely merits further investigation. 

“Thought?” Jaskier makes himself ask, conversation more to steady himself than anything. This could be perfect all on it’s own, the way Geralt’s breathing goes all sharp and uneven as Jaskier’s cock slides along the silky length of his. 

“If that was the opening act, I figured-” Geralt pants out, utterly debauched and Melitele’s tits, Jaskier wants to live in that sound for the rest of his life. It’s not an act, but it quickly becomes clear that Geralt recognizes its potential to distract, and all at once, his hands are splayed out across Jaskier’s thighs in a wicked promise. “-you probably had other plans for the main attraction.” 

It’s just pithy enough that Jaskier buys the words as Geralt’s own and not an attempt to be anything other than exactly what they are. Privately, he's grateful for it, wanting the witcher exactly as he is. In the dark, Geralt’s shoulders are solid ground and Jaskier clings to them as he tries inexpertly to aim for Geralt’s mouth again. “Oh fuck _me_.”

Geralt mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘that’s the idea’ which is the single most unoriginal response Jaskier has ever heard. It comes with Geralt’s hands sliding up his thighs to squeeze purposefully at his rear though, so Jaskier forgives it. 

Time goes funny on him, formless mostly, but taking shape in fits and starts. It’s Geralt’s finger slick with the oil he must have gone to retrieve, dragging in a slow, relentless tease and then pushing in. It’s the gasp Jaskier breathes out into Geralt’s freshly cleaned hair as the witcher takes him apart one slow slide at a time. It’s the buildup, the way his whole body feels like it might tremble apart as Geralt opens him up. It's heat, it's pressure and Geralt’s fingers curling just so until Jaskier is wailing helplessly at the headboard.

And then it’s something softer. He whines as Geralt eases his fingers free, but as it turns out, there's purpose to it beyond tormenting the bard. Geralt rolls them over, carefully really, with an arm around Jaskier to ease the way they shift. Safe isn't a word Jaskier has ever associated particularly with sex, but now the whole universe has narrowed, with Geralt leaned over him, a wall between him and everything else. There’s something startlingly gentle about the way Geralt nudges his thighs to fall open just a little more, an act of tenderness beneath the harsh veneer Geralt usually armors himself with.

“Okay?” Geralt asks. 

At the same time Jaskier is coaxing, “ _Please._ ” 

Jaskier curses the lack of light and sort of wishes he'd stopped to light the candle again. He can’t really see what’s happening until Geralt’s cock is nudging at him in brief warning before the witcher is pushing past what very little resistance is left. Jaskier’s coherence is only hanging on by a thread, in danger of freewheeling entirely, but later he’ll fall in love all over again with the way Geralt only stays down there, distant and out of reach, long enough to guide the head of his cock home. As soon as his hands are freed up, Geralt is sliding up Jaskier’s body, mouthing at the crook of his neck, the line of his jaw, anywhere in easy reach. 

Geralt pulls back only to slide home again while Jaskier curses against his lips. He wants to be annoyed by how unhurried Geralt’s pace is, but it’s hard to be bothered by anything when every thrust is a revelation, his insides going molten. 

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Jaskier murmurs when he finds his voice again, when Geralt bows his head, forehead pressing to Jaskier’s shoulder as they move. Jaskier takes full advantage, burying his fingers in Geralt’s hair. If it’s more tender than tittilating, his heart threatening a scattershot explosion, Jaskier has no intention of owning up to it, thank you very much. 

Geralt’s breath leaves in a huff that might be amusement. “You can’t even see.”

“Mmm, true,” Jaskier concedes, breathy and stilted in time with the way Geralt rocks into him. “But I know. You’re always gorgeous.”

Geralt shifts just a little, just enough that the new angle has Jaskier seeing stars, so it’s probably understandable that it takes him a moment to recognize Geralt is even speaking, let alone what he’s saying. “Pretty sure you think differently when I’m covered in monster guts.”

“ _Geralt_.” Jaskier chastises, except that precisely when Geralt deigns to wrap his hand around the base of his cock, so the name comes out as more of a whine. “You’re meant to be fucking me speechless here and you’re talking about monster guts?”

The laugh that gets him is brief, barely more than a puff of air against Jaskier’s skin. It’s genuine all the same, chased by an unabashedly affectionate kiss to Jaskier’s collarbone, so gentle that Jaskier can almost forget there is absolutely nothing else wholesome about the two of them right now. 

“Menace,” Geralt grumbles like he means to tattoo it onto Jaskier’s skin from his lips. Funny really, how much _menace_ sounds like _I love you_.

Jaskier is no saint, not even about Geralt. Especially not about Geralt. He’s pictured this all sorts of ways, back when it was no more than a private fantasy. It's been rough and tumble after a hunt, still high on adrenaline. It’s been rushed scrabbling at each other, shoved up against the door to their room, the fallout of someone's control finally snapping. It’s been a clumsy fever dream borne of too much want and far too much booze. But it was always going to be like this, even as they barrel into uncharted territory. It isn’t that any of it is short on passion, just that, whatever else, Geralt is his dearest friend and he feels it every bit of the way. There’s a new shape the two of the are molding to fit, but it’s still them at the heart of it. 

Whatever the tempo, Jaskier loses himself in it. He tries to guide Geralt’s face close enough to kiss with the barest brush of his fingers against the witcher’s jaw, but it’s enough. Geralt takes Jaskier’s parted lips as an invitation, tongue curling pleasantly in his mouth. 

They’re sweet like this, to each other, despite everything. Geralt touches him like he’s spun glass, precious and ever so fragile. A hand that Jaskier knows is capable of such violence slides up and catches his, lacing their fingers together, palm to palm on the pillow beside Jaskier’s ear. Jaskier cradles the back of Geralt’s head with the free hand and kisses him. And kisses him again. And does his damnedest to make up for all the years it took them to get here. 

There’d been warning the first time around, but whatever luck that was has run out. Orgasm takes him by surprise, a collision of some magnitude and then the freefall. Jaskier lets out a helpless sob, only barely muffled between kisses as Geralt fucks him through it with a hand stroking in time with the rocking of their hips. He spills, hot and a little sticky across his own belly, but he’s too busy trying to wrap himself around Geralt to care. 

Geralt isn’t far behind him and Jaskier will happily endure it being somewhat too much if he can just keep this. There are no gods here, but Geralt whispers his name like a prayer, broken, pleading, utterly wrecked. It’s the best thing Jaskier has heard in his entire life. 

It’s over long before he’s ready for it to be, despite being pleasantly spent. Jaskier whines at the cold when Geralt eases out of him and flops back on the bed, but it’s probably good that one of them had the presence of mind for the witcher not to collapse in a heap on him. Jaskier can barely string two words together, and his limbs are still boneless in the afterglow, so it was definitely going to have to be Geralt. Jaskier stares up into the darkness where the ceiling should probably still be, sated and contentedly listening to Geralt catch his breath in the dark. 

“So what about you?“ Jaskier asks when he’s reasonably certain he can coax his mouth into the shape of words again. He can hardly get his limbs to cooperate though, so he doesn’t complain when Geralt hauls him like a ragdoll into a sleepy embrace. “You never said anything either.”

“There was usually someone else. I just assumed I wasn’t the sort of person you wanted to spend the night with.” It’s only years and years of knowing Geralt that let him recognize the emotion beneath the calm facade, that it’s a moment of some uncomfortable exposure. Geralt comes to him unarmored, even though he it sounds like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, as if Jaskier could possibly let him _go_.

“Of course not,” Jaskier agrees. There was a time, maybe, when the appeal was just physical. How anyone could look at Geralt of Rivia and not want him was a complete mystery. That had come and gone though, so very long ago, so far back Jaskier scarcely remembers. Ignoring the way Geralt tenses against him, Jaskier presses a kiss to a patch of smooth skin he thinks is Geralt’s shoulder, “You’re not. You’re the sort of person I want to spend my _life_ with.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi! You can find me [on Tumblr](https://drowningbydegrees.tumblr.com/) or [ this one](https://drowningbydegrees-fanworks.tumblr.com/) if you're only interested in fanworks.  
> Sometimes, I also exist on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/DrownByDegrees)  
> 


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